


Like a Slave Who Longs for the Shade

by BuggreAlleThis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Instability, Public Transport Mental Breakdown, Scene: The Bus Stop (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuggreAlleThis/pseuds/BuggreAlleThis
Summary: Crowley forgets to ask an important question, and Aziraphale would like to continue his public bench mental breakdown in peace, thank you very much.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 493





	Like a Slave Who Longs for the Shade

**Author's Note:**

> For [ileolai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ileolai), who indirectly requested the original, and for [charliebrown1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234), who asked whether it could be posted here!

Aziraphale’s face was as bright and as blank as the moon as he looked along the village road at the approaching Oxford bus. As soft and still as a pearl. “I suppose I ought to ask him to drop me off at the bookshop,” he said, lightly. Floating somewhere.

Crowley’s heart sank. He knew things were bad, but this was a sign that even he’d underestimated it. “It burnt down,” he said, voice quivering with the effort of keeping it as gentle as possible. “Remember?”

The light in Aziraphale’s eyes changed; memory washed across his face. He looked away, and stared into nothing.

_Get him home_ , Crowley thought. Not _home_ , not really, Aziraphale didn’t have a home any more than he had any side but Crowley’s. No bookshop, no heaven. But he had Crowley’s place. Crowley would chafe life back into his hands, give him some alcohol for his nerves, make sure he was warm. He could make sure Aziraphale had silence if he needed it, or soft music and talking if silence was too loud. He just… had to get him home first.

The bus crossed to the wrong side of the road, but there was no traffic at this time of night to worry about. Crowley stood up, and Aziraphale didn’t. “Angel?”

“I might wait here,” Aziraphale said. He was staring across the village square; the green had a single sapling and a minuscule water pump. All the closer windows were dark; a couple down the road glowed softly through pink curtains. There were a handful of stars overhead, washed out by the light of the bus. 

“There might not be another bus for ages, and I’m shattered,” said Crowley. “Please.”

“I don’t think… No. No. I’d rather remember the shop as it was, instead of… instead of… It’s quiet here. I could wait here. I don’t think they’ll be long. I imagine they’ll come for me in the morning, and I- you want to go to-”

Aziraphale’s hands were beginning to shake on his knees.

The driver leant out of his window. “Are you gents coming or what?”

“Yeah, we’re coming,” Crowley said, and pulled Aziraphale up by his coat. “Come on, come _on_ \- work with me for thirty seconds-”

“I don’t want to,” Aziraphale said. Crowley manhandled him onto the bus and pushed him down the empty aisle. “I don’t want to. I want to wait on the bench!”

“Wait for _what?”_ Crowley said. He got Aziraphale up the step to the back of the bus, where they could face each other. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, and his head was jerking like a bird’s as he looked around.

“I don’t want them to come for me here,” he said. “I wanted to wait on the bench! I could see the sky, and there were trees, and- it’s too bright here!” His face crumpled. “I don’t want to see it in ashes… I want to go back to the _bench_ -!”

He lunged for the button on the pole and Crowley caught him. “Aziraphale!”

“Get off me!” Aziraphale said, fisted his hands in Crowley’s jacket, and clung.

“Of course we’re not going back to the bookshop,” Crowley said carefully. “Aziraphale, I wouldn’t make you see that… We’re going to my place.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “What?” His cheeks were wet.

And then Crowley remembered that he _hadn’t actually made the offer_.

“Fucking-” he began, and gave up - he pushed Aziraphale back down into the corner seat, beside the window, and sat beside him, one arm around him to steady the angel, who looked liked he’d pitch forward right off the seat if left to his own devices. “Aziraphale… You didn’t think I was going to get off at my place and… what? Leave you to sit in the gutter outside the shop?” 

Aziraphale gasped, once, his shoulders heaving. “I said we weren’t friends…”

“You stupid-“ Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s temple, desperately. He wanted to cry himself. “You daft… Of course you’re coming home with me. Come on. Of course.”

“I’ve never been,” Aziraphale sobbed. “Don’t know if you didn’t- didn’t want-“

And Aziraphale was right. Crowley had never invited him. A thousand times, he’d been to Aziraphale’s bookshop, but the idea of inviting Aziraphale into his space, filled with the pathetic mementos of his hopes and dreams, had felt too appallingly vulnerable. “Of course I want you there. I’m sorry. I thought it was obvious; I’m sorry. We’ll go to mine, and you can stay there with me forever if you want. We’ll get there, and I’ll make us some drinks, and we’ll… we’ll wash our faces. Wash our hands. Work out what to do.”

“I said we weren’t- I said it was over-“ Aziraphale pressed a hand to his abdomen as though his waistcoat was the only thing holding his guts in. “I’m _sorry-“_

“No, no, no. When was the last time I listened to you, eh?” Crowley said tenderly.

“But what I said-“

“I said plenty too. It doesn’t matter now. I nearly lost you…” He’d only felt loss like that once before, and he’d rather die before he felt it again.

“I couldn’t see you. I thought we’d be too late. They didn’t listen… They _wouldn't_!”

Aziraphale was trembling. His body was contorted in an attempt to bury his entire face in Crowley’s petrol-smelling, fire-stinking jacket, and Crowley remembered him saying that the bus lights were too bright. Remembered how Aziraphale always tried to hide his tears. He let go and Aziraphale let out a horrible noise. “Hush, it’s all right, just for a second… there…”

He couldn’t unfurl his wings here, in so small a space. But he could move his body, and take off his dark jacket, and carefully drape it over Aziraphale’s head; he could shield his shuddering body with one arm, cradle the back of his head against his shoulder with the other hand. A reciprocation six thousand years in the making. “There. It’s all right. It’ll be all right. Home soon.”


End file.
